Spoilers: Nothing pressing. Or at all, really.

Disclaimer: Don't own WAT, or chicken. Pity - I quite like chicken...

Author's Note: Not really much to say but, "Hope you enjoy." Alors, I hope you enjoy! Oh, and title from the Billy Joel song. Becuse we all know just how obsessed I am.

Martin was starting to regret this decision.

Seriously regret it, because not only was he bored and uncomfortable, he was bordering on irritated. Which alleviated a little of the boredom, for which he was twistedly thankful, but it only served to exacerbate the discomfort.

He squirmed in his chair, having rather unpleasant flashbacks to his childhood, and squared his shoulders, his eyes never leaving his plate. Mostly, he figured, because he really couldn't be bothered actually looking up.

He'd had a hell of a week at work, only to remember late on Friday afternoon that he owed his parents a dinner this weekend. He envied his sister, living at least three state borders away with "commitments".

Martin found it kind of depressing that his parents hadn't even bothered to ask him if he had something better to do. Not that he did; at least not legitimately. He had things he'd rather be doing – reading, sleeping, hell, watching football – but he had a feeling that that would only worsen his problems.

Admitting to his parents that his life consisted of either working or sitting alone in his living room would only have given them more reason to tell him that his life was off track. They made it sound like he was a drug addict, or something.

Which, really, was rather funny, because he was a drug addict and wouldn't it be amusing to tell his parents about that debacle? He was surprised that they hadn't found out yet, anyway, and whether that was because they didn't want to know, or simply because he hadn't seen them in so long, Martin didn't know.

Didn't particularly care to know, as long as they stayed ignorant.

He could, sadistically enough, almost picture their reactions. His mother would probably just become silent, shutting off the worry that would inevitably flicker through her eyes for just a second. His father would stop, look at anything that wasn't Martin or his mother, and then continue eating. He'd bring it up next time he wanted something.

Trying not to smile to himself at the thought, he glanced at both of his parents – one at each end of the table, of course – who were eating in silence. His mother widened her eyes at his father, and apparently it wasn't only Martin who reverted to thinking he was a child when he was here.

Victor, in turn, cleared his throat.

"So, Martin," he started and again, Martin bit back a smile. "How's work?"

Great.

The inevitable Awkward Silence Question. But the problem with his father was that it wasn't just a question to break the silence, something easy to answer and smile-and-nod about. It wasn't only loaded; it was cocked and aimed directly where it would count. If Martin had to make an anatomical parallel, it would have to be a kneecap.

One could be writing in pain, bleeding, no way to run away, yet not dying for hours upon hours.

As that morbid thought swam through his mind – and really, this was what his parents reduced him to – he thought about how to answer his father without sounding defensive.

"Better since Jack's been back," he answered with absolute sincerity. And it was well worth it for the look that got, because that anger? Priceless.

For at least the fifth time tonight, he had to physically stop himself from smiling. Didn't quite manage and shovelled some chicken into his mouth, trying to disguise his amusement.

When his father spoke again, it was with detached self-importance, but his tone was also a little threatening. "You would have adjusted, Martin."

Martin held his father's gaze for a few seconds, and the room actually seemed to grow colder. And all this time Martin had been thinking that that only happened in books…

"It would have been beneficial for you to work under someone who knows the ropes," Victor continued, arrogance growing by the word. "Someone who has ambitions for his team; who'll help them climb the ladder."

Martin barely refrained from pointing out the mixed metaphor. Wasn't quite sure why he bothered; it would have been at least a little proof that Martin's education hadn't, in fact, gone to waste. Instead, he settled for clenching his jaw and making sure to control his voice.

"Jack knows the ropes as well as anyone, Dad," he defended calmly. Probably why he avoids them, he added mentally.

"You know, Martin," – and now his father was getting impatient – "it doesn't reflect professionalism to refer to your superiors by their given names." And this was getting ridiculous. The next thing Martin said was hardly his fault.

"Should I be calling you 'Agent Fitzgerald'?" he asked, and Martin was really very good at passive aggressivism – he had Danny to thank for that.

But Victor actually had the nerve to look amused.

"There's no need to get petty, Martin," his father said sternly, and he could have sworn that he was five. Martin's jaw clenched again but he remained silent. His father did the same, probably thinking that he'd won – which, really, Martin supposed he had – and picked up his scotch.

Martin didn't really understand drinking scotch with dinner, but if it shut Victor up, he was all for it.

It was his mother who broke the silence, looking as taciturn as ever.

"How's Samantha?" she asked sounding undoubtedly drained and Martin felt almost excruciatingly guilty. Then angry at himself for feeling guilty, and damnit, loving his parents shouldn't be a chore.

He took a deep breath, actually rather pleased by the change of topic, and looked directly at his mother. He figured his father could listen in if he really felt the need.

"She's well," he answered noncommittally, and he saw Victor's nod out of the corner of his eye as if to say, My son has a girlfriend. It was sadistic, really, just how much pleasure he took in letting his father down.

Figured that after years of disappointing him, he had no choice but to find it amusing.

"But we're not together, anymore," he said with a smile. He wondered briefly just how long it had been since he'd really seen his parents. He'd seen them since the shooting – his mother even making an unannounced house-call, and how did they not know about the drugs?

He simply figured that no one had ever bothered to ask before, and it wasn't the sort of information he volunteered. Nor were the reasons behind their breakup. Victor would have a field day if he found out about Samantha and Jack's relationship.

Then a coronary if Martin told him who he'd been lusting after.

A smirk lit his face; he couldn't help it.

"Was your breakup particularly amusing, Martin?" his mother asked, sounding weirdly like a school teacher asking him to tell the class what was so funny.

Martin swallowed laughter. Only if you're as screwed up as I am.

"No, Mom, sorry," he said and the way she looked at him made him feel the sudden need to explain himself. "I just remembered a joke Danny told me earlier," he lied.

Well, technically, it could be true, because now he was thinking of all the stupid things Danny had said to him throughout the day, and they were equally as amusing the second time. Though this probably said more about his current state of mind than Danny's sense of humour.

"Agent Taylor?" Victor asked, and why on earth his father cared who 'Danny' was was beyond him. Well, only a little beyond him, in that he could reason well enough as to exactly why his father was asking.

Martin referring to men that Victor didn't know for a fact were his co-workers or study-buddies had always made Victor a little wary. He had a feeling his father didn't know why, though; at least not consciously.

"Yes, Dad, Agent Taylor," he affirmed, not bothering to hide his exasperation this time. He stopped himself before he could add anything about Danny not being his superior.

Honestly, he just didn't really want to talk about Danny at all. Talking about Danny lead to all kinds of weird feelings that he'd much – much – rather stew over in private, if at all. Besides, he'd rather keep his non-relationship with Danny to himself.

"From what I read in Agent Malone's reports, Danny Taylor is a very competent agent," Victor pointed out abstractly. Why was he telling Martin this? He worked with the man, for hell's sake. And why was he reading Jack's reports? And why was Danny relevant to anything?

All very good questions.

"Yes," Martin agreed instead. "Yes, he is." He was disturbingly tempted to either run away before Victor started saying Danny's name any more – he said it so harshly – or to rant about just how competent Danny really was.

Neither were very good ideas, and neither were particularly dignified, so Martin just kept his mouth shut.

He'd almost forgotten just how disciplined he used to be. Jack, Vivian, Samantha, Danny; they'd all changed that for him. At work, he didn't have to school himself into calm indifference, didn't have to bite back every little thing he wanted to say.

It wasn't a revelation to think that they were more of a family to him than this one.

Really, he had no idea why his parents even bothered to have these dinners. It wasn't like any of them got any kind of enjoyment out of it; no tears saying goodbye, no happy-family moments, no card games after dinner.

Martin had a feeling that this was what it would feel like if he were stuck in a room with only lawyers and law enforcement officers. He laughed at that – silently as he took a sip of wine – and made a mental note to remember that joke for Danny. He had a feeling Danny would appreciate the joke more than his parents anyway.

"He went to law school?" his father asked, and wherever this was going was not a good place. And had deputy directors always had this much access to personnel files? Or such a weird personal investment in them?

Because really, this was getting weird.

"Yeah," Martin answered, wondering if he could get away with just grunting instead of speaking. It would be about as effective as his terse answers seemed to be, and it would take much less effort. It wasn't like his father was actually listening to him; in fact, he seemed to have developed his own little obsession with Danny, and Martin was suddenly a little protective.

"He didn't take the BAR exam, though," Victor said, somewhere between a question and a statement.

Martin hesitated, staring at his plate for a few seconds. On the one hand, his father would probably already know the answer to that, but Martin didn't exactly want to give away why Danny had missed his exam.

He wondered if this protectiveness towards one's friends was normal. It wasn't like he'd know, he thought bitterly.

"It's all in his file," Martin pointed out impatiently, getting a rather surprised look from Victor. Martin held up his hands and looked briefly at his mother – who looked rather more bored than anything – then back at his father. "Look, Dad, I've been working overtime every day this week," he said, annoyed when Victor's eyes showed something like smugness. "I really don't want to talk about work right now."

He regretted saying that almost as it came out, but at the same time Victor looked pleased enough with himself that Martin couldn't really care. He had a good few months until his father decided to pick at him about work again, he figured.

He could almost hear the I told you so from the other end of the table, and while his ego had been dampened a little, he could content himself with the silence.

After about five minutes of nothing but the sound of cutlery on china, Martin's mother spoke again.

"So, is there another woman?"

Martin nearly groaned as he stepped into the elevator. Almost home. Four more floors and he was all but out of his suit and in bed. He watched the numbers shamelessly, unbelievably glad for the advent of such a device.

He didn't think he could handle stairs right now. He hadn't been lying when he'd told his parents about working overtime all week. Not that it was really "overtime", because there was only so much overtime they were allowed to do – that the government wanted to pay them for, really – and they'd surpassed that limit by Tuesday.

Only to get another case at five o'clock the next morning.

The elevator dinged and Martin pushed himself off the metal wall, hating that his hip tingled for a few seconds but ignoring it professionally. Hands in pockets, he turned automatically down the hall and came to a stop about twenty feet from his door.

Someone was leaning against it, knees bent and feet flat on the floor, arms hooked around them. He frowned at the intruder – probably just some lost drunk – and took a step closer, intending to tell them off.

He'd flash his badge if it meant getting into his apartment anytime sooner.

Another step and Martin opened his mouth just as the guy looked up.

"Jesus, Danny," he muttered, trying to hide his amusement and relief. Just some drunk. The words came back to him and he almost laughed, wondering whether Danny would laugh if he mentioned it.

"Finally, Fitz," Danny complained, rolling his eyes as if sitting in Martin's hallway was a preplanned event. Perhaps it was; one never knew with Danny Taylor.

"How long have you been waiting there?" he asked, suddenly realising that Danny was sitting in his hallway.

Danny's answering grin was almost wolfish. "Not long," he said, and Martin had a feeling he was lying. "Though I would have been," he continued as he stood up, "if Mrs. Landau hadn't pulled me in for a cup of tea."

Martin knew his eyes widened a little as he fished in his pocket for his keys. As much as he liked his neighbour, the prospect of her talking to Danny for any extended period of time was a little worrying. Partially because the woman was lonely enough to bond with just about anything, and partially because she was one of the few people who had ever seen Martin kiss another man.

Really, it hadn't been his fault. The guy he'd been with – David, Martin thought his name was – had unceremoniously shoved him against the door. Only on the wrong side. They had still been outside his apartment, in the hallway.

Suffice to say, Mrs. Landau seemed to get some cheeky thrill out of teasing Martin about his sex life – or lack thereof – which really tended not to bode too well for him keeping his taste in partners a secret.

He ignored the flash of panic, though, telling himself that the woman probably didn't remember anything, anyway.

"Have a nice chat?" he asked Danny innocently, finally getting his keys out of his pocket, having had to somehow shift his backpack a few times to get there.

Instead of smirking, like he probably would have if he'd been on the receiving end of such information from Mrs. Landau, Danny just pulled a face. "Remembered why I don't like tea," was his response as he frowned and dragged Martin's bag off his shoulder.

Martin frowned back at him, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. Danny just shrugged and smiled. "You looked like you needed some help."

Martin felt himself redden as he walked into his apartment, Danny following closely behind.

"Anyway, she just wanted to get into my pants," Danny said helpfully, closing the door behind him and kicking off his shoes. Martin almost choked.

"She's eighty years old!" he cried, trying not to laugh at Danny's innocent expression. Innocence soon turned to smugness, though.

"Hey," he said with a shrug. "I'm an attractive guy."

Yes, yes you are, he thought, but kept his reaction to an eye-roll and a breathy, sarcastic chuckle. "Sure, Danny," he teased instead. "Sure you are."

Danny grinned as Martin shook his head, laughing at his partner's egotism. Martin was fairly certain that he hadn't been entirely joking, either, as he took his bag from Danny's hand and tossed it into its respective corner.

He wandered into the kitchen, smiling a little as Danny situated himself comfortably on his couch, wriggling into the cushions. He pulled out a couple of bottles of water and turned the coffee-maker on; Martin had long ago learned that once Danny was settled, he tended to stay that way.

He'd spent a few nights on Martin's couch because of that fact – something that Martin wasn't going to complain about anytime soon.

As much as he'd wanted to just crawl into bed and forget about his parents, he liked Danny's company more than enough to satisfy.

"Seriously, though," Danny called from his position on the couch. Martin moved to join him and Danny shuffled over to make room – not that Martin would have minded him being a little too close. "She really did hit on me."

Martin laughed at that. "Come on, man," he complained. "She's an eighty-year-old Jewish widow with no children."

Danny just looked at him as if to say so what? and took a swig of water. Martin rolled his eyes again. "Sure she hit on you, you egotist," he added and Danny actually had the nerve to look affronted.

"I'm not being an egotist," he defended slightly louder than necessary, though his voice betrayed his amusement. "She asked me if I was sleeping with you," he continued and Martin actually did choke this time.

This, this was not good.

Far from it, actually. Not only had he put up with parental confrontations, he also had to put up with Danny's as well. He really, truly hoped that he and Danny could just laugh it off. He coughed a few times and Danny slapped his back, laughing.

Sadist.

"You know, I think I'm offended that the idea of sleeping with me is so upsetting," he mocked and Martin actually considered hurting the man. And great, now he had Danny's smell and Danny's smirk and Danny's hand on his back, and this really wasn't helping him breathe properly.

Neither was the way Danny was staring at him like he was looking for something that Martin hoped to Hell wasn't showing.

"So how was dinner?" Danny asked suddenly.

And Martin tried to recall telling Danny about dinner – fought to recall even having dinner – but had no memory of the conversation whatsoever. Uh oh. Letting things slip around Danny wasn't usually in his best interest. That he couldn't remember was a little worrying. God knew what else he could have inadvertently told Danny.

He opened his mouth to ask just as Danny seemed to notice Martin's confusion. "You had a memo on your desk," he said, smiling like Martin was incredibly amusing. And he knew that it meant something bad that he was relieved to find out that Danny had snooped around his desk – because he was pretty sure he'd physically buried that particular Post-It under piles of paperwork.

"Oh," he grunted, realising that he hadn't answered Danny's question. "It was kind of like being stuck in a room with defence lawyers and cops," he recited dryly.

Danny's laugh was definitely worth the remembered joke. He finally removed his hand from Martin's back – for which Martin was both thankful and a little annoyed. "Sounds pleasant," Danny responded, his tone matching Martin's, but his eyes just about shone with amusement.

"Oh, it was," he replied, taking a sip of water and wishing rather strongly that it had some kind of ethanol content. "If I had to pick two people to give my eulogy speech, it would be them," he said, only half-joking. Danny remained silent, cocking his head and eyebrow in question.

"They only ever want to talk about my 'better' qualities, if they can help it," he explained, not bothering to censor the bitterness in his voice. "Which, thankfully, leaves very little to be said," he added, not really caring that he sounded like a hormonal teenager.

"You only have better qualities, Fitz," Danny said, and Martin must have heard him incorrectly. He looked over to see Danny staring at him with a soft smile; a real smile and apparently he hadn't misheard him.

For a few seconds, he held the gaze, trying to read Danny's expression. But before he could get further than sincere, Danny smirked.

"Except, maybe, your fashion sense," he teased, raising an eyebrow as he looked Martin up and down. Martin felt his face flush as Danny did so. It was Danny's expression more than his words that made Martin defensive.

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress," he argued, still sounding a little like a teenager. But Danny did, too, so he didn't bother hiding it. Danny raised both eyebrows, now, and looked at him like he was insane.

"The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, Martin," Danny countered, his tone deadly serious. Martin just stared at him; the recovered alcoholic and the relatively-recovered narcotics abuser sitting on a couch talking about the Twelve Steps to accessorising the wardrobe.

"You know, I recall hearing that somewhere," Martin agreed, nodding in consideration. Danny smirked at him suddenly, and the only adjective Martin could find now was lascivious. Which really didn't help, because Danny was touching him again, hand resting casually on his knee.

"Mm," Danny agreed, and the noise was far too low to be innocent. When Danny spoke his next words, Martin was fairly certain that he had, in fact, gone insane. "Then you also know that the only way you're ever going to fix the problem is by getting rid of everything that reminds you of it; everything that might tempt you."

And Martin was fairly certain that amongst all the subtext there was a tug at the leg of his slacks.

He was absolutely certain, though, that he'd gone insane; driven mad by the combination of his parents and the long week. He was probably asleep on his couch by himself right now, just wishing that Danny was there.

But then he leaned in closer and Martin couldn't think much beyond Danny looks like he wants to tear my clothes off.

He didn't move as Danny's grip on his leg tightened momentarily, afraid that he'd do something incredibly stupid. Like forget whether or not he was asleep.

Danny cocked his head a little, a mock-frown creasing his brow.

"Now, why would Mrs. Landau think that we were sleeping together?" he asked, and what?

Martin's mind – in its current state – took far too long to process that segue. Really, the man – even in his dream, if this in fact was a dream – was trying to kill him. He wondered vaguely if it was possible to confuse someone to death.

"Uh," he managed, cursing inwardly. Danny smiled at that, and Martin was slowly realising that Danny was a sociopath.

"See, in my experience," Danny continued casually, as if he weren't trying to kill Martin, "eighty-year-old Jewish widows do not just assume that strapping young men like yourself date other men."

And oh. That's where this was going. Pity it had taken Martin so long to catch up, really, because he was sure that his answers would have been more intelligent had he known.

Had Danny just called him "strapping"?

"Oh," he muttered, and maybe not. He worried briefly if Danny were going to abuse him, tell him that he should date women like a normal man, but with the way Danny was staring at him – and the fact that he was already homicidal – Martin figured not.

He did, however, seem to be incredibly amused by Martin's monosyllabic answers.

It was the amusement that made Martin narrow his eyes despite his lack of higher brain function.

"You just don't know the right eighty-year-old Jewish widows," he retorted and Danny seemed genuinely taken aback by Martin's sudden playfulness. Not that it was really playfulness, but it sounded like it and that was enough for Martin.

At least he didn't sound like the nervous wreck he was, and it was just plain distracting that Danny's hand was on his thigh; higher than before, Martin would swear upon it. He was torn between wanting to run and wanting to just pounce on Danny, and it made him strangely angry that Danny looked like he knew. Like he knew that Martin was torn, and was enjoying it immensely.

He suddenly realised that between his parents and Danny, he would be driven totally insane before he reached forty. He could just imagine Danny and his parents plotting against him, though he wouldn't imagine that seducing him would have been his father's idea.

Only then did it occur to Martin that this was, in fact, seduction.

And that put a whole new spin on things.

Danny was seducing him.

Why?

"'Why?'," Danny repeated, and either Martin had said that out loud or Danny was suddenly a mind reader. "Why what?" he asked.

Martin only had to look at Danny's eyes – glittering like they did when Danny was feeling particularly mischievous – to see that he'd said that out loud. Oops. He wondered what else he had said. Hopefully nothing, if Danny was actually bothering to ask.

And this was mean. Danny was making him say words; actually form sentences while Danny's hand was most definitely moving higher up his thigh than before.

Bastard.

"Nothing," Martin managed after a few calming thoughts about naked Jack and accounting math. Danny just smirked, and Martin was seriously reconsidering the whole "mind reader" thing because it was fairly obvious that Danny wasn't believing a thing he said. What Danny did next was certainly not his father's doing, though; that much he was sure of.

Danny kissed him, mouth more than a little insistent against his, and naked Jack turned into naked Danny, and if he were of a more functional state of mind, he would probably have been worried about that.

But as it was now, Danny was pushing him back into the couch cushions, free hand in his hair, and Martin knew that there was at least one thing about tonight that he wouldn't regret. And if the words Danny whispered in Martin's ear with a deep chuckle were anything to go by, neither would Danny.

For once, he didn't wonder what his father would think.

For once, he didn't care.